The Book Of Invasions
by SilverSpring
Summary: Rated T. Eventual E/E.
1. Daybreak

_**Author's Note:**__ The __**Lebor Gabála Érenn, **__or __**The Book of Invasions**__,_is a written account of the history of Ireland which has since passed into legend. These stories provided inspiration for the band 'Horslips' whose album '_**The Book of Invasions: A Celtic Symphony'**_ tells the story of the _Tuatha Dé Danann_, an ancient tribe of kings and queens who reigned over a golden age in Eire. "After their defeat at the _Battle of Tailteann_ the Tuatha simply vanished from these islands. Tradition and popular belief has it that the Tuatha, through their esoteric powers, became the _Sluagh Sidhe_ (The Fairy Host) and, taking their secrets and mysterious arts with them, entered an occult realm where they remain to this day."

Character names credited to Victor Hugo.

Title and chapter names credited to the Horslips.

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><p><em><strong>The Book of Invasions<strong>_

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><p>Chapter One: Daybreak<p>

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><p><em>"I am a traveller. A wayfarer. I am one who began a journey long ago, yet failed to reach its end. I was upon this earth before, though never in this place. We live and die and are born to live again. And across the reach of time we live still, in so many other lives that truly we are all but one. One life in many forms. I am here to finish the journey that I once began, and to that same early purpose: To bring my fellow travellers home." <strong>(Steve Augarde, Winter Wood).<strong>_

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><p>"We are made of the stars and the sea", Azelma had told her once in a sing-song voice. "The stardust of the sky itself fell to the ocean and when it settled on the seabed it rose back up in human form."<p>

But as Éponine gazes up at the boy who is weaving fiery words through the air, she thinks he is made of anything but dust and water. The crowd around her cheers and sparks kindle in his steely blue eyes, and the young girl almost believes he could breathe such fire as to set the whole city burning to the ground.

"Perhaps the ones who didn't make it the whole way to the surface became the merfolk, the ones mother told us about, who drown the sailors in their love. They sing to call their dear ones home."

Azelma had always had a longing for the poetic, and their younger days would often find the pair huddled together and poring over old books with strange pictures and gilt letters of little meaning. Unable to fathom the lines and squiggles on the page, Éponine would instead nestle her younger sister closer to her side and whisper her own tales, of brave knights and fair maidens and battles fought in the days long ago.

"_To believe is the most important thing_," she would tell her siblings. "_Hope is what carries us through the darkness, at least until morning comes_."

For many years Éponine subscribed to this mantra wholeheartedly, and she would often see the heroes of her stories repeatedly appear on the street outside her window, where beautifully dressed ladies would ride past in their carriages and gangs of men robbed the rich to feed the poor. Charity begins at home, her father would often declare, as he emptied his pockets of golden rings and leather wallets by the fireside of the tavern, treasures of another world she'd known only in her books. He'd celebrate his good luck by spending the remains of the money on his favourite bottle of liquor, the rent safely paid for another month and the children going barefoot for another two.

Not exactly the same as her fairytale endings, but awfully, terribly close.

Nowadays Éponine has little time for stories, and Azelma's old picture-books have long since disappeared; fuel for the tavern fire in long winter nights. (The childrens' tears didn't last too long, for the past few years have been harsh on the family income, and their father's temper has quickened with their descent into miserable poverty).

She gazes curiously up at the podium where the two young students are waving their arms and shouting about things that she doesn't understand.

Such big words.

She's here for Marius, of course, and yet as Éponine stands in the midst of the gathering crowd her eye is drawn back always to the boy at his side; a flag held tightly in his hand and flames flickering in his eyes. He looks so very young in the early morning sunlight, the rays catching in his hair like glints of gold and sapphire, and she recalls the crude whoops of her father in the dwindling light of the inn, the last few flames flickering on the surface of the jewels and casting dancing shadows upon the stained sofa where her mother sat brushing the soft blonde curls on the baby's head. A faded vignette of family life.

(The street rats bite off more than they can chew, and foundations quiver beneath unsteady feet.)

Gavroche has long since skipped off into the crowd. Her mother will have her life if she loses him again, but Éponine cannot tear herself away from the scene in the square. The people have been gathering since dawn to listen to this strange pair of bourgeois students shout, and warn, and inspire. They make all sorts of promises, empty promises, all pretty words and prettier faces.

She clutches the leaflet they had thrust into her hands, useless for she cannot read it, and drags her eye back to Marius, who is brandishing a handful of papers in the air. Unlike his friend, who is immaculately dressed, down to the polished spurs on his boots, Marius has patches on his jacket and fatigue in his eyes. Still, the grace in his movements and the elegance in his speech tell a different story. His family is bourgeois; and despite his haggard appearance, Éponine has long since learnt the difference between riches and rags. Here was a young boy straight out of Azelma's stories, standing upon the brink of a wave; a fish patiently awaiting the day to walk along the shore beside men.

Or perhaps to be drowned in love.

"Lemarque is fading fast, and they say he won't last the week! It is for us, then, the citizens of Paris, to respond to his call and take back our city!"

Éponine frowns as a sudden bolt of anger shoots through her.

_They are their own fairytale_, she thinks wryly. _These bourgeois princes think they can save the world, one unreadable leaflet at a time, but they are not warriors. They are children._

_Don't they know we all turn to sea foam in the end anyway?_

She shakes her head, and turns away.

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><p><strong><em>To Be Continued.<em>**


	2. March Into Trouble

**The Book of Invasions**

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><p>Chapter Two: March Into Trouble<p>

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><p>"<em>Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green lizard, as he ran past with his tail in the air.<em>

"_Why indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam._

"_Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice._

"_He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale._

"_For a red rose!" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" _

_ And the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright._

_** (Oscar Wilde, The Nightingale and the Rose)**_

* * *

><p>She would watch him from a distance in the Luxembourg gardens, her gaze soft and curious as he wrung a small white handkerchief between his fingers, glancing here and there across the flowerbeds at the early morning strollers and late night ramblers.<p>

Éponine was simply mesmerised by the boy, who was to be found more and more often in this quiet part of the city, alone and miserable. In those early days of spring, when the heat of the sun seeped through the air to warm the ground beneath their feet and call the flowers to attention, he wore a near constant expression of misery, and it had hurt the young gamine to see such distress painted so coarsely across his sweet, boyish features.

They had met before, on a fateful day several months ago, and it was his gentle demeanour and rosy cheeks which had startled her into dropping the wallet she had pulled fresh from his pocket. With a good natured laugh, he had emptied its entire contents into her hand. After that Éponine had followed him wherever he went, listening to his naive bargaining with the merchants on the street as he tried to sell his old belongings to them, books and pocket watches no longer of use to him but for reaping a modest living. Her solemn eyes drank in everything she could as the young man went about his daily business. In fact, her distraction had earned her more than one heavy smack from the back of her father's hand, when on several occasions she had returned home empty-handed.

But her fascination was not reciprocated, for the young man seemed to only have eyes for another, a phantom love whose face was etched upon his mind's eye even as she slipped through his fingertips; the initials, stamped prettily upon the lace handkerchief, whispered over and over upon his lips. Even in the harsh light of day Éponine remained but a ghost to him; a detail she tried to disregard, assuring herself that their established acquaintance gave her the true claim to his affections. When the afternoon sunshine set the Parisian parks bursting into blooming buds of colour, she would boldly trace his steps at less of a distance, dreaming that he may catch her reflection in the water and ask her to walk with him; she would pass the rest of her days at his side, and they would talk of everything beneath the blue sky.

She saw the girl close up a few weeks after her first meeting with Marius, for that was his name according to Gavroche, who knew most comings and goings of the low society in Paris ("ain't sure what he's doing here, mind, with those shiny buckles on his boots!"). Éponine had been meandering down the Rue de la Chanvrerie, lost in thought and searching for the one face she had come to know so very well, down to the last freckle. At long last she had caught sight of him, exiting the building at the end of the street with two others; a tall young man with spectacles and an anxious expression, and another, shorter with dark jets of hair and a deep red velvet cravat. Hands clutching at the stone wall behind her, Éponine had fallen back into the shadows of the baker's shop, watching intently as the trio conversed in the doorway of the rickety old cafe.

Her heart had leapt when, to her delight, Marius spotted her; a grin of recognition seeping into his face as he made his way across the busy little street to where she stood.

It was then, halfway between his friends and the young gamine, that the young man had stopped in his tracks, transfixed, and Éponine had followed his gaze to the other end of the street.

The girl was beautiful. Her soft curls fell in waves over a cloak of blue velvet and a warm sheepskin muff; her face soft, her lips red as a rose. She traversed the street slowly, arm in arm with a much older gentleman who was handing money to the poor who huddled in doorways, clutching at his hands and blessing the pair for their kindness.

The sight of the young girl's face had sent lightning bolts of recognition through Éponine.

_No, it couldn't be. _

She could not help the pangs of anger and hurt shooting through her chest, and, raising an eyebrow in irritation, she had crossed her arms and waited, foot tapping impatiently and trying desperately to ignore the rising bile in her throat.

"Yes _monsieur_?"

Her harsh tone had startled Marius from his reverie.

"Oh - I meant to give you this."

Oblivious to her scowl, he had dug in his pocket and held out a handful of small coins.

She had stared at his outstretched hand, the coins glinting in the sunlight, then back at the girl handing money to the poor.

_Look what's become of me._

"No thank you monsieur."

Her voice no more than a whisper, Éponine had turned away and, overcome with anger and humiliation, and paying little heed to his calls behind her, she had taken off at a run.

* * *

><p><em>Her heart leaps as a familiar wave of brown hair comes sweeping up the stairs.<em>

"_Marius, you're late!" "Enjolras reprimands sharply._

_It's been several days since she was last able to spend the evening in the company of the students, and Éponine swears that Enjolras had seen her slip in quietly, his gaze lingering on her face as she discreetly tried to find a seat in the shadows. (Although he said nothing). _

_Marius weaves his way to where the grim-faced leader now stands at a table in the centre of the room, surrounded by papers and plans; maps of the future as they dreamed it. It had been a long day of handing out leaflets, and the students are growing tired, their revolutionary fervour replaced by a youthful desire for fun._

"_You look like you've seen a ghost, Marius!"_

_Joly eyes his friend anxiously, exclaiming in a hushed voice, "You _are_ rather pale, Marius. Are you unwell?"_

"_Perhaps. She…never mind."_

_Marius' eyes glaze over with something, a faraway, mystified look that causes an uneasy stir in Éponine's heart and a fresh wave of frown-lines in Enjolras' forehead._

"_What are you talking about?" he says sharply._

_Sitting down in an empty seat by the fireplace, Marius heaves a sigh and rubs his eyes with tired hands. _

"_Nothing, I guess."_

"_You're sure you're not unwell?" Combeferre asks kindly._

"_No, I've never felt anything like this before."_

_Rolling his eyes, Enjolras turns back to his papers._

"_Wait - is Marius in love at last?" Grantaire cackles with glee. "How nice!"_

_Marius blushes and hangs his head, and Éponine's heart sinks. _

_Not for me._

"_Is she sweet, is she gentle, is she everything one could ever dream of?" _

_With a dramatic flourish, Grantaire pretends to swoon and loses his balance, stumbling backwards and knocking piles of paper from the table, earning an irritated glare from Enjolras. _

"'_Taire..." sighs Combeferre, scooping up handfuls of leftover leaflets. "Careful."_

"_It's almost midnight, time we stop all this nonsense and crack open a bottle of wine-"_

"_You've been drinking since noon," Enjolras growls through clenched teeth._

"_So?"_

"_So you should either pay attention to what we're doing or go home-"_

_Grantaire pulls a face and jumps to a mock salute. "Yes sir – oh!"_

_Combeferre lunges to catch the candle knocked flying by Grantaire's hand, and the room erupts with angry voices._

"_For god's sake, Grantaire, I told you to be careful –"_

"_- never listen to me –"_

" – _waste of space –"_

"_- Listen! -"_

"_- feel a bit dizzy, I hope I haven't got Marius' complaint – "_

" – _drink elsewhere or get out –"_

"_LISTEN EVERYBODY!"_

_Courfeyrac's voice cuts through the noise of the bickering students, and Éponine is surprised to see her brother at his side, solemn eyes shining in the light of the remaining candles._

"_Go on," Courfeyrac urges, nudging the child forward._

_Gavroche takes a deep breath, puffing out his chest with pride and importance, before delivering his fatal message. (Because for these kinds of things, you have to do it just _so_)._

"_General Lemarque is dead."_

* * *

><p>She had watched them many nights, huddled in a shadowy corner of the Café Musain with her hair swept beneath a hat, for few females were ever allowed entry to the rebel headquarters. The candlelight glowed invitingly through the rain-washed windows, beyond which all of Paris lay engulfed by the dark night.<p>

They were almost laughable, these bourgeois princes, as they organised and cheered and planned a new world in that crowded little room.

Had she not been drawn to Marius as a moth to a flame, nor quite so enjoyed the heroic fairytale words that poured from the lips of his friend, she would have scorned the thought of participating in such a waste of time.

Still, it was warm in the cafe, and beat having to drain her boots of muddy rainwater at bedtime.

The gamine had confronted the red-coated leader after one of the particularly intense meetings, when his naive words had become too much to ignore and his arrogance had struck a chord. Marching straight up to him in the hallway and jabbing her finger into the centre of his chest, he had flinched like a frightened puppy, astonished, and she'd almost laughed outright but for the proud rage swelling in her chest.

"We don't need your pity, or your help," she had snapped.

Glancing at the door through which the other boys were packing up their papers, he'd led her towards the top of the staircase in the dimly lit landing.

"So how exactly do you plan to make a living?"

"I have my ways."

He'd raised an eyebrow at the insinuation and given her a stern look.

"Don't you think it would be easier to affect change, to be given a fairer lifestyle? If anything it'll make an honest worker out of you-"

"Oh, I see, we're too barbaric for the pure little bourgeois prince?"

"That's not what I said. I simply mean to help your situation to the benefit of all citizens-"

"Well I certainly admire your ethics."

The normally composed leader had stared at her, his cheeks reddening beneath her glower.

"Well what's the point in wallowing in poverty and self-pity instead of doing something to pull yourself out of it?" he'd retorted hotly.

"Your ignorance suits you monsieur" she'd spat at him. "It rather matches your pretty face and your pretty words, but they are empty and meaningless, and you're a fool if you think you can change anything."

As she had turned to walk away, he'd caught her elbow firmly and hauled her back to face him.

"No, _mademoiselle_."

She had flinched at the emphasis he gave the word, startled to realise that he had seen through her boyish disguise.

"You're forgetting one thing. I have as much right to my beliefs and hopes as you do to your misery. Resist mine if you must, but don't condemn your people to a lifetime of deprivation because you're too proud to accept any help yourself."

And he'd left her there, open-mouthed and trembling, as the door to the cafe swung shut behind him, the ghost of his touch upon her sleeve burning through to her skin.

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><p><em><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>_


	3. Trouble (With A Capital T)

**The Book of Invasions**

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><p>Interlude: Trouble (With a Capital T)<p>

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><p><em>"Enjolras!"<em>

_He jerks his hand at the sudden reprimand and the pyramid of playing cards collapses onto the table. _

_The schoolmaster towers above him, cane in hand and glowering over half-moon spectacles which have now slid to a rest on the sharp ridge of his nose._

_"__Were you listening to me?"_

_"__Oui, Monsieur."_

_"__Then where are your notes?" he scolds, pointing at the blank page lying on the desk in front of the young boy._

_Enjolras winces as the schoolmaster gives him a sharp rap on the knuckles with his cane._

_"__You must learn to focus, young man," he says sternly, shaking his head. "Dedicate yourself to your studies, or you'll end up on the streets. Only true gentlemen understand what a dishonour that would be to one's family. Didn't your mother ever tell you about her scoundrel of a half-brother? A good for nothing layabout who thought he was above the guidance of his teachers, the laws of man, the sanctity of the written word. And what of him, now that he has put himself beyond the pillars of the world? Glory? Valour? Respect? No. Wrack and ruin, that's what. Now he is a pauper, probably more dead than alive and God knows where. When a traitor comes begging, the people turn their backs. Your mother is adamant you shall not share in his fate. Now, pay attention. We shall proceed." _

_The schoolmaster turns back to the blackboard and continues to spell out an extensive list of Latin verbs._

_Looking wistfully out of the window, Enjolras silently curses his estranged uncle for obliging him to have to endure such a lecture; not to mention his mother for causing him to miss out on this glorious summer's day in the first place. _

_With a scowl, he reluctantly picks up his long-forgotten pen and underlines the date._

_June 6__th__, 1823. _

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><p><strong>To Be Continued.<strong>


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